The Corporation

CHAPTER EIGHT

TOM ELLIOT AND Bill Mayer found her luggage quickly. “We have a car,” Bill said. He motioned for Michelle to begin following him. “Corporate has convened a meeting at the hotel, and we need to get there on time.”

Michelle was still stunned by their sudden appearance. “A meeting? Tonight? For what?”

“Strategy,” Bill said.

Michelle looked at Tom Elliot; he had a blank expression on his face. When he smiled it looked false, as if something unseen was pulling the tips of his mouth up. “I understand you’re probably tired, but this shouldn’t take long. Bill will help you check in and escort you to the meeting, and I’ll get your luggage to your room so you won’t be late.”

“But—” Michelle protested.

“Come on, we don’t want to be late,” Bill said. He took Michelle’s elbow lightly and attempted to steer her toward the exit.

Michelle jerked her arm away from Bill. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

Bill frowned. They were standing near the exit, oblivious to the bustling of activity around them as throngs of airport passengers walked around them, carting luggage and children. Michelle could feel the cold Chicago air as the doors wheezed open and shut. “Excuse me?” Bill said.

“Are you deaf? I said, get your fucking hands off me!”

Tom frowned. “I hardly think this is the type of language to use on—”

“Tom,” Bill said, looking at his co-worker.

“—fellow team members,” Tom said. He stopped, that strange smile crawling across his features again.

“I hardly think you want to be brought up on a sexual harassment charge against a fellow team member either,” Michelle snarled.

The flinch was barely visible but Michelle caught it; Tom blinked and looked at Bill.

Bill’s tone was soothing. “I’m sorry. I just got a little carried away. I’m just very eager to get you to the meeting. I don’t want us to be late.”

Everything had happened so fast that Michelle’s mind was still trying to process it. She felt a huge sense of distrust in Bill and Tom; who the hell were they? Why would Corporate Financial send them to the airport to intercept her like this? Suppose they weren’t who they claimed they were? Her distrust rose and she reached into her purse for her cell phone. “Put my suitcase down,” she told Bill. “And step away from it.”

“I hardly think this is an appropriate—” Bill began.

“Put the suitcase down now or I’m yelling for a cop!” Michelle said, her voice loud.

Bill set her suitcase down. Tom still looked stoical, like he was struggling to react in some way but didn’t know how. Michelle turned her cell phone on and, keeping a careful watch on Tom and Bill, she scanned down to her pre-programmed numbers and found Sam Greenberg’s number. She pressed the Send button and brought the phone to her ear as it began to ring on the other end.

Sam picked up on the fourth ring. “Michelle? What’s up?”

“Did you send somebody to O’Hare to meet me?” she asked, keeping her fiery gaze on Tom and Bill.

“Yes, I did. Tom Elliot and Bill Mayer. Have they found you?”

Michelle felt herself relax a little bit. “Yes,” she said. “What’s this about a meeting tonight?”

“It’s last minute and I apologize,” Sam said. His voice was soothing. At least Sam was genuine; he wouldn’t lie to her. “It’s part strategy, part orientation. You need to be brought up on some last minute updates before your meeting tomorrow.”

Tom Elliot and Bill Mayer were watching her. She held their gaze, not allowing her anger to subside. “Okay. Just wanted to check.”

“Call me tomorrow,” he said. “I’m rushing to a meeting with Mr. Lawrence and some of the other board members.”

“I will.” Michelle pressed disconnect and replaced the phone in her purse. Despite Sam confirming that Bill and Tom were legit, she was still angry at the situation. She was also angry at them and didn’t give a shit if her behavior filtered back to Sam. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go.”

This time Bill didn’t need to steer her toward their car, and he didn’t offer to carry her luggage. Her suitcase had wheels and she tugged it along behind her as she followed Tom and Bill into the parking garage.

BILL MAYER AND Tom Elliot were thorough and efficient. The minute they arrived at the Embassy Suites Hotel, Bill escorted her to the check-in desk. When the check-in clerk (Guest Facilitator, the clerk’s name badge read; not Check-In Clerk but a Guest Facilitator; Jesus what a bullshit job title) handed her passkey over, Tom said, “If you hand that to me, I can get your bags to your room.”

“I think I’d rather have a hotel employee do that,” Michelle said, turning to the Guest Facilitator. “Does the Embassy Suites provide that kind of service?”

“Yes, Ms. Dowling,” The Guest Facilitator said. The Guest Facilitator was a young African-American woman, attractive, shoulder length curly hair, dressed impeccably in a navy blue suit coat, a white shirt and dark slacks. She typed on the computer keyboard in front of her. “If you leave your bags here I can have the concierge deposit them in your room for you.”

“Thank you,” Michelle said.

When the concierge arrived a moment later, Michelle nodded at Bill and Tom. She still had her carry-on bag—which contained her business documents and personal effects—and her laptop. “Let’s get this over with,” she said.

Bill and Tom led her through the hotel’s convention area. The hotel was large, with the first level consisting of the check-in area, the lobby, a lounge and restaurant, an indoor swimming pool and gym, and an area for business meetings. There was a lower level that consisted of a banquet and convention area that was probably used for conferences. Michelle had attended dozens of conferences in the past half-dozen years, and most hotels of this size were similarly laid out. The meeting room they were heading to was on the first level, away from the convention area, which told Michelle that Corporate Financial had only reserved a few small conference rooms for the weekend.

They walked down a short, wide hallway past several empty conference rooms. When they got to the end, Bill opened the door and beckoned Michelle inside, holding the door open for her. Michelle entered the room and the people grouped around the conference table all looked up. Michelle paused for a moment, taking everything in—the overhead screen pulled down, the projector directing a beam toward the white screen, laptop computers on the table, papers out, a pot of coffee resting on a small cupboard on the right. The dozen or so people grouped around the table were unfamiliar to her and they were all dressed in business attire. She was just about to dismiss them from her mind and find a seat and get this over with, when one of the people caught her attention. She glanced at the person in question and tried to suppress her surprise which was coming as rapidly as her shock and growing fear.

Dennis Harrington. Sitting immobile and rigid in a chair at the far end of the table. Alma Smith was sitting beside him. She remembered meeting them in El Paso, and they hadn’t made much of an impression first time around. They’d seemed typical of the young urban professionals who were in their late twenties she saw every day, driven by the singular goal to climb up the corporate ladder. Both of them were reasonably pleasant looking, dressed professionally, and appeared well mannered and spoken, but now they both looked like…

Michelle banished the thought from her mind as she quickly crossed the room and sat down at the opposite end of them. She reacted accordingly when Bill introduced her to the group. “Everybody, this is Michelle Dowling. She’s new to the group; just started out of the Lancaster, PA branch.” She heard the group murmur hellos and then she was forced to pay attention as the chair of the meeting, a guy in his mid-thirties with thinning black hair and dark glasses, quickly brought her up to speed. She feigned interest in the stuff that didn’t interest her—what the hell did she care about the behavior patterns of the workforce population? Bill Mayer was sitting next to her, notepad out, and he was jotting down notes. Michelle followed his lead and took her own notepad out and wrote, meeting, April 14, 2008 and nothing else as she listened to the chair drone on, and she tried to keep the questions her conversation with Jay had elicited from overwhelming her and tried to avoid looking at Dennis Harrington, who was sitting at the other end of the room like a goddamned zombie, like he was fucking dead, and then she was trying to fight a sudden wave of vertigo and fatigue and she yawned, trying to fake her interest in the meeting, at least keep the illusion that she was interested in what was being said, and then she was trying to figure out where that strange tune was coming from, it kept circling in her mind, unceasing, and as the chair of the meeting started the Power Point presentation she suppressed a sigh and dreaded the long night that was no doubt looming in front of her.

THEY DIDN’T GET much sleep. Donald Beck finally dropped off in the easy chair sometime after two a.m. and as far as he knew, Jay O’Rourke never fell asleep. They’d sat in front of the television in the darkened living room talking with the TV set turned on at a low volume. Jay brought him up to speed on a lot of what happened at Building Products, told him about how he’d just sort of fell into doing the kind of work he ended up being hired for (“I sure never went to school for this kind of shit; there’s dolts out there who actually spend fifteen grand or more and get college degrees and certifications to learn this shit!”) and at one point they’d stopped talking and Jay had turned the volume of the TV up. CNN was on and a news story about a massacre at an insurance company in Irvine, California was unfolding. Donald had watched silently; the reporters were calling it the deadliest office shooting to ever happen, with twenty-four people confirmed dead and another dozen in critical condition. A thirty-four year old former employee of Free State Insurance in Irvine had walked into the executive suite of the building and killed twelve high-ranking executives including the CEO and CFO of the company, with two Glock semi-automatic pistols. Then he’d roamed the hallways with a Tec 9 semi-automatic assault rifle and gunned people down. “Shit,” Jay said. He groped in his shirt pocket for a cigarette. Donald had set an ashtray out for him earlier—no sense in having him dash outside every five minutes for a smoke. Jay lit the cigarette with shaky fingers and watched the coverage and Donald wondered if the massacre had anything to do with what was going on with Corporate Financial. He’d voiced this to Jay during a commercial break. “I don’t know,” Jay said. He took a sip of coffee. “I hate to think that it does, but…”

They’d watched the news coverage for the next forty-minutes, since it was a big story on all the major news outlets—it was being endlessly recycled on CNN, FOX, and MSNBC. In that forty-five minutes they learned that the killer, Victor Adams, had been despondent over the death of his nine-year old son due to cancer, and reports were coming in that he blamed Free State for his son’s death. Adams had been laid off in an outsourcing initiative that sent his job overseas, and when he was laid off his medical insurance was severed. “He couldn’t afford to cover himself and his family,” a male, middle-aged former co-worker said, fighting back tears. “And nobody would help him and Brent. The people at Free State didn’t care, either.”

Not true, said a youthful-looking male Free State spokesman, who made a brief statement to the press. “While Free State was sorry to let Mr. Adams go, along with hundreds of other emploees, the company is even more sorry that his personal troubles led to the continuing health problems of his son. We extend our condolences to the Adams family for their tragic loss. What the company maintains is that we are not responsible for Brent Adams’s death, and we regret the fact that Mr. Adams decided to take it out on twenty-four innocent people who not only did not know him personally, but were not directly involved in Brent’s death. To assign blame on the death of a loved one who has passed away from something such as cancer is irresponsible. It suggests that the split life or death decisions made by doctors in their everyday work to save and improve the lives of their patients now hang in the balance, that if they don’t do the right thing they will be the target of somebody who feels they weren’t doing their job right. To assign blame on a company for making a business decision is equally wrong and troubling in this economy.”

“What fucking horseshit!” Jay shouted at the TV. Donald felt his anger flare; once again, those with no medical training were laying the blame on doctors. The media was reporting it, further enforcing this in the mind of millions of gullible people who were already losing their faith in the medical system.

The more they watched the coverage the more angry Donald got, and he turned the TV off. “It figures that the management of the company who let this person go would then blame him for his downfall. It’s sad that this had to happen, but—”

“You’d think these dolts would learn by now that you don’t fuck with people,” Jay said. He took a sip of coffee. “Granted, a lot of people that go bugfuck in the office are mentally unstable anyway, but I’ve been hearing a lot of recent stories about guys just like this one. They get laid off suddenly, can’t get a job that paid them what they made at their old job, debts pile up, they lose their minds.”

Donald shook his head, thinking of the man’s son. “I don’t even want to imagine what he went through in losing his son like that. I guess if I were in his shoes, I would have blamed his former employer, too.”

They’d talked about it for awhile. Donald told Jay about Michael Brennan, the patient he was treating for testicular cancer and how his employer’s HMO refused to cover his surgery. Jay shook his head. “That’s fucked, man.”

Donald tried calling Michelle several times and always got her voice mail. He had grown concerned as the night wore on, and was just about to call her again when she called at midnight. “I can’t talk much,” she said, sounding tired. “We’re having a break now.”

Donald felt his unease grow. “Maybe you should come home,” he’d said. “Maybe—”

Michelle interrupted him. “I’m fine. Let me get through this weekend. I’m here now, and if I feel the same way come Monday, I’m resigning. I can’t deal with it.”

When Donald told Jay about their conversation, he frowned.

“Something’s up. I don’t know what, but…”

Donald was now dog-tired. He’d told Jay he was going to bed. “There’s linens and extra pillows in the hallway closet,” he’d said. “I’ll get some for you.”

“Thanks,” Jay said. He leaned back on the sofa. “I might just watch TV for awhile. You okay with that?”

Donald was okay with that, and when he turned in he kept his bedroom door open. The faint light from the TV seeped in from the hallway and he heard Jay get up once to venture into the kitchen for something. The next thing he was aware of was sunlight streaming through the Venetian blinds of his and Michelle’s bedroom window.

Now with a fresh pot of coffee brewing, Donald headed into the living room. Jay was on the sofa, still staring at the TV. As far as Donald knew he could have been up all night. Jay yawned. “What time is it?”

“Eight-thirty,” Donald answered.

“Think we should call Michelle?”

“Yeah.” Donald reached for the phone in the kitchen and dialed Michelle’s cell phone number.

Jay watched while the call went through. When it was picked up Donald barely recognized Michelle’s voice. “’lo.”

“Michelle?” She sounded dog-tired.

“Donald!” Her voice perked up, but it was still heavily tinged with fatigue. “What’s up?”

“How’d it go? You in your room?”

“Yeah.” There was a pause. It sounded like his call woke her up. Donald glanced at Jay and nodded. Jay held an imaginary phone to his ear, a questioning look in his eyes. Donald nodded and Jay darted into the master bedroom to pick up the extension there.

“You okay, honey?” Donald asked.

“Just… real tired.”

There was a clicking on the line and then Jay’s voice came through sharp and clear. “Hey, Michelle.”

“Jay.” Donald heard her yawn. “Damn, I’m beat.”

“No wonder,” Donald said. “You’ve been at it non stop now for over a week.”

“Yeah, and I’ve got more today.” There was another pause. “Shit,” she said, more of the fatigue trailing away from her voice as she began to slowly wake up. “I’ve got thirty minutes to shower and get ready.”

“The meeting’s at eight?” Donald asked.

“Yeah.”

Jay asked, “How’d it go last night?”

“I don’t know. Okay I guess. I was so tired I zoned out through most of it.”

“Who was there?”

“Oh… damn, you’re not gonna believe this.” Her voice grew sharper, more defined. “Dennis Harrington was there.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t help thinking what you said yesterday,” Michelle said. There was another sound in the background, and then he heard running water. “He and Alma were there.”

“What was he like?” Jay asked.

“The same.” Donald could hear the rushing water more clearly now; it sounded like she was in the bathroom. “Listen, I gotta get ready for this meeting. I was up last night till two-thirty.”

“The meeting went on till two-thirty?” Donald blurted. He couldn’t believe it.

“Yeah. I tried to get out of it… tried to excuse myself, but Bill and Tom… they’re the guys from Corporate Financial who met me at the airport… they… they wouldn’t let me leave… and—”

Jay and Donald blurted simultaneously: “What the fuck do you mean they wouldn’t let you leave?” “They met you at the airport?”

“Whoa, one at a time here,” Michelle said. Donald detected a grin behind her voice. She was definitely waking up, slowly but surely.

“What’s this bullshit that they wouldn’t let you leave?” Jay demanded.

“They kept telling me it was important for me to be there,” Michelle said. “Look, I’ll tell you more tonight. I’ve really got to get ready for this meeting and—”

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?” Donald asked.

“No!” The denial came so quick that Donald knew she was telling the truth. “No, it’s nothing like that. It was more like… I didn’t want to get in trouble with my boss.”

“So they intimidated you,” Jay said.

“I guess you could say that.”

“Fuckers,” Jay muttered.

“And this meeting went on till two-thirty,” Donald reiterated.

“Yeah. But like I said, I zoned out. I stopped caring about being there and I think I actually fell asleep at one point.”

Donald felt a grin crack his features. “Good for you!”

“Yeah, well, I don’t want that to get back to Sam,” Michelle said. “I couldn’t help myself, so if I did fall asleep I’m going to be in deep shit.”

“Fuck ’em,” Jay said. “You don’t need them anyway.”

“I need this job, Jay.” The running water was turned off on the other end. Michelle sounded fully awake now. “I’ve got a shit load of debt, a mortgage, car payments, I can’t afford to have this job taken away from me now.”

“So get another one,” Jay said. “If they treat you that way, they don’t deserve you.”

“Easy for you to say,” Michelle said. “But my career is depending on this gig. If I can pull this consulting gig off, I’ll be fine. They need me here.”

“They don’t need you!” Jay protested.

“Look, I gotta go,” Michelle said. “I’ll call later today when the meeting is over. Okay?”

“Be careful, Michelle,” Donald said.

“I will, and I love you.” Michelle hung up.

Donald replaced the phone on the cradle, a tinge of worry running through his system. There was something Michelle said that bothered him. He was thinking about the conversation, replaying it in his mind, when Jay returned from the master bedroom. He looked shocked; his dark eyes were wide, his features suggesting he’d just seen or heard the impossible. “What was that all about? The chick I met Monday night would not have put up with that kind of corporate bullshit!”

“You’re right,” Donald said. The woman he’d met three years ago and fell in love with would not have put up with that kind of intimidation. Three months after they began dating, Michelle was fired from a consulting gig for refusing to be intimidated by an executive who stormed into her cubicle at the job she was working at and began loudly verbally abusing her. The executive had demanded she fix something, make something work that she had no power over, and when she tried explaining to him that this part of the project wasn’t within her scope but that she’d get to the folks who handled it to correct the problem, he wouldn’t take that as an answer. “Fix it now!” He’d thundered, standing over her.

“Would you please lower your voice?” Michelle had asked politely.

“What? Are you telling me to lower my voice? Do you know who I am?”

“I’m telling you to lower your voice because you’re harassing me. Please calm down and—”

“You will do what I say, when I say it. You will fix this problem and—”

“If you’ll just explain to me what you need fixed, I can help you!” Michelle had no idea what the man needed fixed. She’d heard through the grapevine that he was a prima donna, that the decisions he made were based on half-truths, greed, ego, and were not for the betterment of the company as a whole. She also knew he was completely unsuited for his position after he sat in on several meetings at which she was present. He had no grasp of the concepts they were addressing, no firm grounding in the industry he was working in (multimedia), and continually got things mixed up when it came to Michelle’s role and that of her fellow consultants; if she was part of Pomeroy consulting, she must know what Delloite and Touche were doing, who were also part of this project. They were all consultants, right? Not so.

“How goddamned stupid are you?” The exec snarled. By then, everybody in the surrounding cubicles had grown silent as they listened. “How the hell did you get this job? You are the stupidest bitch I’ve ever—”

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

“I can talk to you anyway I damned well feel like!” The man leaned over her menacingly. Michelle told Donald later that when he leaned close to her she’d actually felt a rise of fear. “I run this show, and I will do whatever the hell I want!”

“You’re harassing me! Stop it!”

“You want to see harassment? I’ll show you harassment! Come to my office, and I’ll give you a—”

“Get out of my cubicle!” Michelle yelled.

“You don’t talk to me like that, bitch!” The exec had spat. “You’ve just fucked with the wrong person and I’m going to see to it that you’re out of here!”

And when the corporate suit said that, Michelle related later that she felt this irresistible urge she couldn’t suppress. “As long as you’re going to fire me, I have a message for you.” The exec stopped, glared at her, and Michelle raised her right hand, middle finger extended. “Fuck you!”

She was dismissed from Pomeroy the next day—with a generous severance package that was their way of saying, we know that should you wish to pursue legal action against us and/or our client for workplace harassment you’d have a strong case; we want to avoid a costly trial so please… accept this gift and we’ll consider the matter closed.

Michelle had taken the offer. It was close to a year’s salary with her benefits. Had she refused, she would have received nothing and would have had to pay out of pocket for a lawsuit as well as find another job.

The feisty, no-nonsense, smart woman who held her ground, who didn’t take shit from the corporate bully was the woman Donald Beck knew and loved.

Not this tired, almost apologetic woman who claimed that her company needed her all of a sudden.

That bothered Donald. He turned to Jay. “I think you have something there. I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but—”

Jay didn’t say anything. Donald read the thought in his eyes. They’re getting to her.